Below Beams

Still to this day, an infinitude of moments later (ok, just three days), the pictured boxer is nothing short of outstanding. Encapsulated in a body whose muscle did not ripple and bulge, rather exuding a general buff-ness defined more by volume than shape. He went six rounds against two opponents and thoroughly dominated both.

Muhammadish, like that soaring titan of boxing past: humble, intelligent, showing none of the characteristic machismo of the rest of the gloved hulks. Perhaps the best way to describe him is “tactical,” in the purest sense of the word. With a thorough understanding of the rules, his body would go infinitely limp as soon as he knew he was tangled up, wasting no energy whilst waiting for the ref to call for separation.

I sheepishly congratulated him after the fight, mumbling something about being the best of the night whilst his coaches coached on as he sat perspiring. I gave him my card, said I’d be happy to send over anything if he shot me an email. Caught in his blank gaze, either of exhaustion or efficient judgement, I slipped my card into his right-hand glove, still glistening in his opponents’ sweat.